May 29, 2009: Bo-Tox

Does this dog look normal to you?

Have you seen Bo? No, neither have I. Not since the photo op. I'm obsessed with him, as every dog is obsessed with him (and the Queen's corgis...but that's a whole 'nuther kettle of fish).

I'll tell you what's happened. Bo killed Sasha. You haven't seen her either, have you? I mean those kids were trotted out every time someone belched or farted and suddenly—poof!—no kids and—poof!—no Bo.

Here's the thing: a lot of dogs are racist. In the pound every second dog was either trained to bark at people of colour (I think that's the going phrase) or else they've never seem a human other than the white ones and so they go ballistic when a non-white crosses their path. It's like me and squirrels. Instinctive hatred of the unknown.

I bet they brought that fucked up dog from his white trainers into the White House and he flipped when he wasn't seeing white people. So then the kids were playing with the "cute little puppy," all alone up in their room and suddenly it turned into Saw 8—Sasha blood sprayed across the walls and Malia running for her life. 

I'm telling you, you can't trust the Portuguese Water Dog—not 'cause it's Portuguese (or at least, not just because it's Portuguese), but because any animal that is called a Water-anything had better be a fucking fish.

So here's what's going to happen now:

First, Bo is going to get killed in a "terrorist" attack or get blown away by a trigger-happy secret service agent who thought he was a terrorist. Then there's going to be a nationwide, and very secret, search to find a Sasha lookalike to fill in. Then the whole little family including Tico—the First chihuahua—will be in front of the cameras again. 

The secret will last forever...unless they tell Joe Biden.

May 27, 2009; The Bed

Three nights ago, twisted in my lust for Ginger and my head in disarray, I peed on Mook B's bed again and it wasn't discovered until just before everyone retired for the night. Well, I thought, these things happen.

That's not what the Mooks thought, especially not Mook A who decided it was now time to take action. He didn't lose his mind, which is easy to handle 'cause it passes quickly (like a summer storm). He just picked up the little ottoman I sleep on in their office, put it in the kitchen, picked me up, and planted me on the ottoman and said, "Bed!" as in: your bed, not our bed and don't you fucking forget it!

Well, I've been banished to my bed a couple of times and even go there myself from time to time to have a nap or simply to keep tabs on the Mooks when they're both in the office. But this was different. 

Mook B went to bed and closed his door. I watched Mook A as he made his night-time tea (like the little old lady he is), then watched him go to the bedroom and...and...and...I can hardly say it: shut the fucking door behind him!!!!

I was alone. On my bed. In the kitchen. It was night. All I had for light was the dim little bulb over the stove. 

How could this be? Surely they weren't going to leave me there, alone, in the night, with no warm body to cuddle against, no heartbeat to sing me to sleep, no tootsies to warm my little body, and no fold of a leg to stick my nose into when I felt the chill? Surely they wouldn't do that! But surely they did.

Mook A came out later, after reading and watching a little TV, to brush his teeth. Oh...my...God...The icy cold he brought into the room. He didn't even look at me. He walked right past me to the bathroom, did his business, then walked past me again and went back into the room, closed the door and turned off the light. And then I was alone, with only the far-off snoring of the Mooks to keep me company.

The house creaks...it always creaks...but this time it was something else; something sinister and nasty and just waiting for everyone to sleep to make a meal of a little, white and spotted Jack Russell Terrier. Suddenly I didn't feel so tough and mean. Suddenly I wished I hadn't pissed on the bed and that I was close to one of the Mooks. I'd even sing for that fat motherfucker, Mook A, if he asked me too, just to be able to cuddle up to something warm and safe.

Later, a moth the size of a pterodactyl flew around the stove's light and I knew it would come for me. I knew it. An ant on the kitchen floor cast a shadow 18 feet wide and suddenly it wasn't an ant but something out of some '50s black and white horror film. I curled up on my bed, as little as I could make myself, and buried my nose between my paws and just stared out, waiting for the hideous death that was surely coming for me. I didn't sleep a wink for the entire night. Didn't close my eyes. Just watched the shadows and listened to the wind outside which, once in a while, would fling the screen door of the kitchen open and shut. If I had had piss left in me, it would have come out a little. 

Finally...finally!...there were streaks of light outside the windows and the birds began to chirrup and I could breathe a little. I didn't move; the shadows were still too dark in the room and too full of...I don't know what...menace. 

Then noise! Blessed noise! Mook B was getting up to pee! God bless his middle-aged bladder! He saw me, seeming to have forgotten I would be there, and smiled. As much as I hate the two of them, that smile just filled me with...safety? Something. 

As he puttered about the kitchen making his coffee and preparing my morning meal—which I ate with gusto—I swore to myself, "I'llneverpeeonthebedagainI'llneverpeeonthebedagain..." 

The rest of the day the Mooks acted like nothing had happened. They played with me, walked me, and as they watched TV they held me in their arms and I couldn't figure out whether I was really enraged with them or if something vital had happened to change the pecking order in La Maison Mook. 

And then, come nighttime, Mook B took me into his room and let me up onto his bed and all was well. Five minutes later he was snoring. Five minutes after that I was thinking, "Jesus-fucking-Christ, I need to pee!"

May 24, 2009: She's Driving Me Mad!

As I was reminded this morning by the Mooks: Three days without incident. I am giving them a break. 

Besides, I have problems of my own. 

Dog Girl

Ginger, oh!, Ginger

Don't make me a whinger.

Come to me lass—

Let me sniff that sweet ass.

Ginger, oh!, Ginger

My sweet kibble-binger.

Stop with the chase

And sit on my face.

Let me lick round your ears,

'Til I bring you to tears,

Trace a line to your beaver,

'Til you're mad with heat-fever.

Never mind I've no balls,

My tongue does the job;

I'll warble a ditty

On your little bitch knob.

As you wriggle and wimper

I'll swear like a sailor—

I know you won't simper—

You'll simply get paler.

When finally you swoon

From the pleasure you've had,

You know that real fun

Comes from dogs who are bad.

Ginger, oh!, Ginger

You wicked heart-singer

Your pie needs a-filling,

And Léo's a-willing.

Ginger, oh! Ginger

You poodle, me mutt;

A match made in Heave!

Come be my sweet slut.

May 21, 2009: Of Neurotics and Rogues

I think I may have finally pushed Mook A over the edge today. I pissed on the bed for the second time in three days and he lost it. Now I've heard of dogs getting beaten, and kicked and punched about, but what Mook A did was scarier because it was so fucking controlled.

He took me by the scruff of the neck (it doesn't hurt, but it's not my preferred way of travel either) and brought me to the pee on the bed, and instead of whining and pleading and wondering why I was doing things like this, he roared at me (and that's the only way I can describe it). Then he carried me to my own little ottoman, put me on it, pushed my ass and back down so I was lying down and roared again. Not really words, just this hideous guttural sound emanating from his guts. Scariest fucking thing I ever heard.

You can bet, now that he's shown some balls, I'm going to pay a little more attention around here. The last couple of days I've been having a fine old time, amusing myself no end with both Mooks. I had gone ten days without incident and they were "very proud" of me, yaddayaddayadda. It was time to regain the upper hand. 

So I'd piss on the bed here, and took a dump on the floor there. The thing is, I didn't need to do either thing. It wasn't a lot in either case. In fact, with the dump, it was like one of those dumps humans take when they're not going for a dump but rather just going for privacy to read that magazine article they've been wanting to finish, or that romance novel with the good part coming up. It's a recreational dump. I thought I almost had them over the edge when I ate the earphones from his iPod. Nope.

The iPod earphones: the sponge earbud covers were particularly tasty.

The effect, though, was hilarious. The Mooks were going slowly insane. They have a lot of crap in both their lives right now and if you exploit that right then the next time you escape from them they might just let you go. (I think that's what happened with my last owners; the pound told the Mooks no one had ever claimed me.)

But it has to be very subtle. You don't want to become that dog after all. You know what I mean: the dog no one likes because it's always shaking and peeing when it's nervous (which is all the time) and zipping it's head around looking for danger (and danger, for a dog like that, can be a Kleenex falling on the floor). No, what you want to be is the rogue dog, the dangerous dog, the unpredictable one. You want them to think you're the kind of dog who'll maul the toddler or eat the kitten or budgie. You want to be sinister, not tiresome.

But let me tell you: in all my doings with the Mooks I had not expected what happened today. I mean, talk about sinister! 

That roar...I won't forget that in a hurry.

So I'm in the doghouse, so to speak: confined to the little ottoman. Time to pour on the charm. Cutes it up a little. 

Wish me luck.

Step one: Pouring on the cutes

May 18, 2009; The Little Games You PLay

Game #1: Alway look innocent...and cute. (Not all dogs can pull this off)

When you're enslaved, it is all about getting the upper hand in such a subtle way that the "master" thinks they are still in charge. So there are games you must play not only to survive but also to enable you to make the final escape, one day...and to never to get caught when that day comes. The Dream? To become one of those alley dogs who eats when and what he wants, who sleeps where he wants and who, if he's lucky, becomes the leader of a pack of alley dogs who roam about killing humans for food.

But until the Dream, it's all about playing the game. The Mooks, for some insane reason, like dogs. I think it's because they can't see past our eyes and into our hearts where rage festers. But as long as they like you, you can play them. Look at me: I've done ever "bad-dog!" thing in the book and they still cuddle me and feed me and buy me things. I've already talked about mastering The Look (eyes slightly squinted in "adoration"), but you also have to have a general demeanor that always, always suggests innocence. Even if you're not innocent of something and you know it and they know it—even if you've shit on the floor while looking straight into their beady piggy eyes—you have to look innocent like, "Oh so so sorry, I did not know this was wrong...I knew shitting on the floor was wrong, but I did not know shitting on the carpet (couch, in your shoes, on your documents) was wrong." If you truly act confused, they wonder if perhaps they haven't taught you correctly or completely. I know this because I hear the Mooks say things like: "Maybe he was trained to shit on paper and that's why I have to print out my final report for the office again. Oh well! Live and learn." They learn, I find another way of making their lives miserable.

Another Game is to "play" with them. If you play hard, it can get wild and wooly and before you  know it you can actually be jumping at their faces to rip their nose off and they are laughing like a pair of schoolgirls at your "energy." For them it's a giggle, for me it's practice for the Final Conflict. And sometimes...sometimes...you can actually inflict real harm like jab a paw into a Mook's eye, or nip the end of his nose so that it bleeds a little and—maybe!—gets infected. What do they do? Well they don't swat me one or rip my head off they say something like, "Calm down, little fellow!" But by then I have bloodlust, you see, and go for the ears, the chin—any damn thing that sticks out. Now that I'm out of control (or at least they think I am because a smart dog is never really out of control) they hold me tight and say things like, "I guess I got you too excited." Well, yes; but this was just a dress rehearsal. Next time it's the throat and a wondrous spray of jugular blood across the room.

Finally, always, always, always go for what you want. Be relentless. Never tire. Never give up. Even if it's something utterly ridiculous like that toy that makes a lot of noise when you bounce it around the house at 3 a.m. Even if you don't want it, really, you must have it. Make them examine their whole system of values. Make them ask questions like, "Do you think he needs more exercise?" or "Do you think he needs to be held more?" or, the best, "Do you think we feed him enough?" You win if they can never pin down what's "wrong" with you. You must remain a total cipher, a mystery to their weary heads. Here's the subtle part: you can't be a loose cannon (one of those dogs who goes off the deep end and eats the baby), you are simply a result of all the mistakes they've made and can correct...or think they can correct.

And then when you've got them completely confused, you do the "kissing" which is just licking, of course, but these idiots think it's love. Lick to a fare-thee-well! Go crazy. If you're lucky, you've just eaten something off the ground that your immune system can handle but theirs can't; go for the mouth, the nose, the ears. It works! "Why have I been feeling nauseous all day?" says Mook A. Hm. And just yesterday Mook B was saying, "I think I need to see a doctor, there's something wrong with my ear." Well, of course there is! A nice lickety-lickety in the ear canal with a tongue covered in fecal bacteria tends to do things to the inner workings of a hearing human. Can you imagine how easy my life would become if these two fuckbrains were deaf? I might not even have to Escape!

But always, always there is the fallback: if they get too perturbed or too confused by you then you just give them The Look. They melt a little. Say, "Awwwww, look at him!" They hold you. You lick lick lick. 

You win.

May 12, 2009; Freedom Denied

What makes the Mooks so hilarious is that they honestly believe that they are going to press this little Jack Russell into the mold of their beloved, late Dalamatian, Cosmo. When they think this is actually happening, they are overjoyed, let their guard down and I pounce. 

Of course, it doesn't always work out. For instance, this weekend we had a gorgeous day and Mook B thought he would take me into the park and sit on a bench and read his paper. Apparently this is something he did with Cosmo, who would sit next to him and just watch the world go by. However, it is clear Cosmo was not fast and cunning because a fast and cunning dog does not go into the park unless it is to kill a squirrel. They're everywhere! Now this cannot be done while on a leash, especially a leash where the other end is attached to a shiftless, rapidly-aging, paunchy Mook. 

However, wait for the Mook to enter a kind of Saturday-morning-read-your-paper-in-the-park-kind-of-bliss and you have an opening...one strong yank and you're free. Which I was, and I went. 

After a squirrel here, jump up the trunk of the tree, no over there, up the trunk of the tree, around the tree, run, around a tree, run...

ACK!!!

I should have noticed: the Mook didn't even run after me. He just waited and watched until I was strangling myself with the collar attached to the twelve feet of leash now wound around the tree. He just sauntered over, paper under his arm, and dragged me home. I couldn't even face the other dogs we passed, so humiliated I felt. Lesson: when you are loose you do not run around trees—you run straight for the traffic; each street crossed is one where the chasing Mook has to stop.

Meanwhile, I'm getting to know the other dogs around here and we've all decided to stop trying to kill each other. There is one sweet poodle bitch named Ginger, but she's always playing head games with me. She'll come up to me, sniff my nose, then shriek in my face. I try to run after her, she does a double turn, then tries to make nice-nice with my Mook. MY mook. No one fucks with my Mooks when I have been working so hard to train them. So I make nice-nice with her Mookette. Ginger loses it, comes at me, I run, and before you know it, leashes are wound around legs, Mooks and Mookettes are falling like ten-pins and Ginger is waving her sweet dog-beaver in my face as she walks away. 

It's enough to make a guy—even one with no balls—crazy.

The Kong: they call it a toy but it's really an instrument of torture. One of the Mooks shoves a cookie way up the arse of this little rubber thing, and I have to suck it, bash it, and chew it to get the fucking cookie. It's good for the teeth, they say, but all I can think is: Yeah, it'll make my teeth nice and strong for when I rip your fucking Mook throats out.

May 5, 2009; Farewell and Adieu

Well, I was worried the time would come and it has. This will be the last blog I'll be writing...at least from this computer. The Mooks couldn't handle me anymore and have been working hard to find me a new home and have. So that's it. Fun's over. It's been a slice.

AHA! Gotcha!!

You didn't think for one moment that Super Léo couldn't find a way around these two tards, did you? It's simple: be good for a couple of days, show them how they can't live without you, and every time they start talking about sending you away go to one of them and lie on their feet. (Not at their feet...on them; make their hairy little tootsies warm.) Works every fucking time, at least it works every fucking time when you're dealing with lily-livered homos who are looking for a surrogate child.

That's one good thing you can say about queers: they like their dogs (and if they're really queer, their cats). 

The convo in this place has been hilarious. Mook A has been like fucking Sybil, one minute arguing for my departure and the next minute arguing for me staying. He'd say things like, "You're driving him (ie: Mook B) crazy and I don't think he can handle the stress right now." And then, in a heartbeat: "He loves you so much I don't think he could handle you leaving." I mean, I wasn't saying anything and I don't even think he knew I was in the room...he was just talking! How whack is that?

I knew what had to be done: go into full-blown nice mode. When I was asked to sing, I sang. When Mook A's family came for lunch on Saturday I played with the daughter without raping her ear like last time. When they were watching TV, I would sit quietly staring at one or the other until they broke down, picked me up, cuddled me and then I would sigh...a noise that always turns them into a puddle of submissive sludge.

Yesterday morning Mook B said, "We aren't sending him away." It wasn't quite a statement 'cause in this house it's Mook A who makes the hard choices and Mook B who does the housework (they're very 1950s Leave it to Beaver in that way...but without the beaver if you know what I mean and I think you do). Mook A said, "We'll see." 

Well...we saw. 

Suck on it!

Of course I won...

May 1, 2009; Oh-oh

Awaiting my fate

Oopsie! I may have gone too far with the Mooks this time. 

I had had two days of good behaviour, according to them, when, yesterday morning, Mook B was not getting me outside as quickly as I might have liked and, also, had left the door to his bedroom opened. So I did what I felt had to be done: I peed on the bed again.

What I hadn't bargained for is that Mook B is at the end of his rope. Not a very calm person at the best of times, Mook B's work as a teacher is driving him up a wall, as we come to the end of the session (his students seem to be a real bunch of little assholes) and as president of his professional association he is also going crazy as he has a tendency to micro-manage. ("If I don't do it, who will!" he's always bellowing to Mook A who gives him a hard time for not resting enough.) Anyway, it was clear first from B's reaction, then A's that I may have pushed them both to the limit.

First, for the rest of the morning, B wouldn't even look at me and when A got up to pee and I did my usual song and dance to "earn" a place in his bed for a bit, B ratted me out and said, "He hasn't been good," and I was left to do my song and dance alone, like some poor loser at a party who plays air-flute to Jethro Tull albums 'cause no one will talk to him.

The silent treatment was bad enough, but the conversation was enough to curl my hair. A: "I think we better consider the fact he may not be the dog for us." B: "But we've grown attached to him!" A: "Yes, that's why we should move quickly before we grow too attached."

Now this is a catastrophe because I've now broken these guys in...or thought I had. They do pretty much what I want when I want them to and if I'm vaguely cooperative I get a cookie. So for the rest of the day I did my nice-nice...to the nth degree. But none of the usual tricks—singing, dancing, chasing about the house—were washing and that evening the hideous discussion went on. A: "He's driving you crazy and we can love him to pieces but if you have a burn-out because you're forced to take time out to wash sheets on top of all your work then he's more trouble then he's worth." B: "All I have to do is remember to close my bedroom door—" A: "—but you don't remember and you never will. He's ruined your bed about six times and look! look!"—he pointed to the open bedroom door—"You're still doing it! So it can't possibly work!"

Then they were discussing what they would do; if they had a friend who might like to take me and how much it would break their hearts but, let's face it, they have to be realistic. Mook A was adamant that he was not willing to watch B have a breakdown no matter how much he loved me and how much B loved me. "But I think we need a dog," B said, almost crying. A: "We can always get another dog; an older, calmer dog." But then B said, "Then we'd be in mourning again in—what?—four or five years?" A said, very gently and softly (the fucker!!!!!!!): "Yes, but we saw some nice older dogs at the pound when we went to get him...trained dogs...calm dogs. Maybe they wouldn't be as much fun, but they also wouldn't be as destructive and they'd still curl up with you in bed and on the couch, you know."

Oh my God...this sounds for real! They're talking about another dog like I'm already half-way out the door.

Tell me they're bluffing. They're bluffing, right? Say they're bluffing...